


moving on

by pasupare



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, miklan is the only spoiler, vague not so happy ending im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 05:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20961290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasupare/pseuds/pasupare
Summary: While he’s in Felix’s warm embrace, Sylvain doesn’t think about Miklan. His mind doesn’t drift to the people who pretend to know what he’s been through. He cries, but it’s not for any of them.





	moving on

It feels like it should be raining.

The air around Sylvain is thick—heavy with regret. Or maybe it’s the dread and anger that bubble up inside of him simultaneously that causes this twister of emotions, like a cold front meeting the warmth.

His muscles ache with the kind of soreness one feels before an unwanted downpour. The throbbing pain makes it hard to navigate his way to the stables. A foolish endeavor if it were to actually rain, but to Sylvain, it just _feels_ like it should be raining. Looking up at the clear night sky, he figures that development’s unlikely.

It would be fitting if it were to rain, though. The clouds cascading a dreary funeral for his now late older brother. But a typical, cliche scene like that would seem straight out of a fairytale. It wouldn’t coincide with the not-so-typical relationship Sylvain had with Miklan.

In fact, Sylvain can’t say that anything about his life has been ‘typical.’ Because most boys aren’t born into a family that adores them for all the wrong reasons. Most boys aren’t a living reminder that their older brother’s life is meaningless. Most boys aren’t constantly deceived and teased—abused, really—by that older brother. But most boys aren’t also the heir to a noble family’s household, so it’s silly of Sylvain to compare his life to that of a normal boy’s anyway.

All of that is in the past now anyway. As of two days ago, Miklan Anschutz Gautier is deceased and nobody will be mourning for him.

Not even Sylvain, who feels like a shell on the brink of shattering.

He’s not sad about his brother, not really. If anything, he’s more sad at the idea of what Miklan could’ve been—_should’ve_ been. He’s more angry than anything. Yet, it’s a hollow anger; one that he can’t blame anybody else for anymore. Sure, he could point all the fingers he wants at his parents, but they were simply a byproduct of this world that values nobility—and more importantly, crests—above all else. It isn’t really their fault. And then where would Sylvain be left to place the blame? Society as a whole? The sentiment is there, but it’s hard to truly direct his hatred out toward everybody else in the world when his own self is right there.

For all the mixed emotions he’s experiencing, it’s no wonder Sylvain hasn’t been able to sleep since the incident. Not to mention the horrifying, grotesque imagery seared into his closed eyelids, watching Miklan physically turning into the monster Sylvain’s always known his brother to be over and over. Even if he could sleep, he wouldn’t want to. That’s why he’s at the stables in the first place, despite his aching limbs begging him to stay in bed. Doing so is out of the question.

Besides, the mental relief that escaping his room brings makes it worth the physical pain. The horses may be done for the night, but being able to busy himself with miscellaneous chores around the sleeping animals gives him a peace of mind that he wouldn’t have otherwise. It’s nice to be away from all the people—all the pitying glaces he receives, all the awkward confrontations where people feel caught in between offering a meaningless “I’m sorry for your loss” or a more genuine “Good riddance, right?”

As fate would have it, though, Sylvain can’t even relish in this peace of mind at the latest hours of the night by himself. When he hears footsteps approaching, he’s less startled by the sudden noise, and more disheartened by the inevitable confrontation. However to Sylvain’s pleasant surprise, the voice he hears turns out to come from the one tolerable person he can imagine the world has to offer in his time of anguish.

“What’re you going here?” Felix’s unreadable features are highlighted by the splashing flames of his lantern. His dark hair almost looks gold next to the light as it falls out of his bun, more disheveled than usual.

Despite the fact that it’s Felix, despite the fact that Sylvain _knows_ he doesn’t buy it, he still has to slap on that shallow grin, “Just taking care of some stuff I didn’t get to earlier. What about you?”

Felix’s intense, amber eyes travel to the mundane tasks Sylvain has been uselessly pouring himself into for the past hour or so, “I just finished training.”

Well, that tracks. “You shouldn’t keep at it so late,” Sylvain scolds out of habit.

A scoff comes from Felix’s mouth, but the last thing he looks is offended, “You’re not really one to talk.”

Sylvain isn’t surprised by the blunt implications of Felix’s retort. He can always count on the socially inept swordsman to never hold his punches. Or, so Sylvain thinks before he immediately understands how wrong he is. It’s not Felix’s lack of tact that makes him speak so frankly with Sylvain. It never has been.

As Sylvain notices the way Felix’s eyebrows begin to furrow, staring to the side, his mouth forming a thin line out of thought, he recounts all the times that Felix has dealt with grief. Not just his own grief—because Felix has plenty of experience with that—but dealing with others’ grief and learning how to approach the subject with each individual person. It’s easy to forget, with how aggressive and closed off Felix presents himself on a regular basis, but he’s actually a very considerate person when he needs to be. For as much as he lashes out, Sylvain can only reason that Felix spends a significant amount of time thinking about the people close to him for how well he’s capable of handling these kinds of situations. Even now—years since the two of them could truly, openly call each other their _best friends_—Felix still understands Sylvain better than anybody else.

So if Felix is speaking candidly to Sylvain without the usual heat in his voice, that must be what Sylvain needs right now.

“I guess you’re right,” Sylvain’s sheepish grin falters, “I’m not really in a position to—”

“Sylvain,” Felix has lowered the hand he’s using to hold the lantern, and Sylvain can only guess he means to be here for awhile. Even through the new embrace of darkness, he can still see the way his eyes flick back to look at Sylvain directly before they return to the ground, “you can talk to me, you know.”

Sylvain wants to say something flippant and carefree to wipe that uneasy look off Felix’s sharp features, but it’s not Felix who needs to be consoled right now, so he continues before Sylvain can interrupt.

“I know I can be… rude at times. But it’s only because I know you can handle it. I do care about you—I’m your friend, Sylvain.”

Sylvain’s throat feels dry. But maybe not in the worst kind of way. More like the way the first, refreshing swig of alcohol makes his throat go dry after an especially long day, the increased beating of his heart being the one key difference.

“I know,” he manages to choke out, meekly and embarrassingly out of character for him. If it were anybody but Felix in front of him, he’d clear his throat and laugh it off. But it _is_ Felix, so he doesn’t.

Felix nods briskly as if Sylvain’s honesty was the correct answer he was looking for, “So, you can talk to me if you want to. But don’t feel like you _have_ to. I mean, if I were you, I wouldn’t want to talk about it to anybody.”

Felix is right, in both regards. Sylvain doesn’t want to talk about it, and he knows firsthand that Felix didn’t want to talk about it when it was his turn to be in the same situation. The circumstances were different, sure—for one, Glenn was actually a caring sibling—but it’s as Felix says. He didn’t really speak to anybody about the incident afterwards aside from short, tempered remarks and the occasional outbursts. He would yell at his father and lash out at all others close to him, but he never really articulated his own feelings. At least not with Sylvain. Thinking back, that’s when Felix started to grow into the closed-off, independent person he is today. And because of that, he and Sylvain gradually grew apart as well. Maybe that’s why Felix is here now. Maybe he knows he can’t make Sylvain feel better, but he just wants to avoid the inevitable repeat of what happened four years ago.

“Thanks, Felix. I’ll keep that in mind,” Sylvain really is smiling now. It’s much more faint than his usual grins, but it’s all the more genuine in how it shows in his eyes.

A couple, loud heartbeats pass as Felix stands mere steps away, so silent that Sylvain can only hear his own pulse. For a moment, it seems like Felix is content with how the conversation settled and is going to call it a night, but the way he shifts his weight and puts his free hand on his hip tells Sylvain otherwise. He has that earlier look of contemplation, like two thoughts are dueling in his mind for the right to be acted on.

Apparently, one of those thoughts wins over, because Felix lets out a shaky sigh as he sets his lantern on the ground beside him. The motions aren’t rushed, but they all flash by Sylvain faster than he can process and suddenly Felix is taking the long strides necessary to close the space between them. Felix only mumbles out a quiet “Just c’mere” as he pulls his friend into one of the most awkward hugs Sylvain’s had the pleasure of experiencing in quite awhile. 

That doesn’t take away from the satisfying warmth of Felix’s body against Sylvain’s though. As the initial shock fades, he shyly raises his arms to wrap them carefully around Felix’s waist like he’s worried about scaring him away. One of Felix’s hands moves to his hair as he guides Sylvain’s forehead down onto his shoulder. The tighter Felix grips with his other hand at the hem of his shirt, the more confident Sylvain becomes in pulling him as close as possible, burying his face into his collarbone. Once Felix seems satisfied with Sylvain’s proximity, he begins to run his fingers through the curls of his hair like he’s petting a particularly needy puppy. Sylvain graciously plays into the role by leaning into the touch.

They stay like this for awhile. Sylvain hardly notices when his shoulders start to shake and he can’t see the way his knuckles go white grabbing at Felix’s shirt. He tries to focus more on how warm Felix feels. How his neck still smells of sweat after a long day of training and how maybe this would be a little more invigorating if Felix had bothered to bathe before finding Sylvain. But maybe this is just as fine. This is Felix after all—unabashedly and wholly _Felix_. So maybe this is better.

While he’s in Felix’s warm embrace, Sylvain doesn’t think about Miklan. His mind doesn’t drift to the people who pretend to know what he’s been through. He cries, but it’s not for any of them. It’s for himself—to free his mind of these frustrating emotions. All the while, breathing in what he can of the one person he trusts most in the world, relishing in his touch.

After awhile, Felix’s hand stills, but he doesn’t pull away. He simply leans in to rest his cheek in Sylvain’s hair. Sylvain can only imagine what he’s thinking, but doesn’t doubt that he would be willing to stay like this all night.

It’s not until the breath running down Sylvain’s exposed neck becomes a bit too stimulating that he realizes it’s time to pull away, still holding Felix close.

Sylvain briefly pulls one hand away to scrub at his face in a futile attempt to hide the tears. Thankfully, neither of their lanterns are near to bring attention to it, but as Sylvain starts to study Felix’s parted lips and dilated pupils, he realizes they’re close enough that the light isn’t needed.

“Sorry,” Sylvain uselessly offers as he returns his hand to Felix’s back.

Felix breathes out a “Don’t apologize” and Sylvain wants to cry all over again. This time, it’s not even for himself. And it’s certainly still not for Miklan or anybody else in the world. No, right now, all he can think about is Felix. About how he wants to hear the soft way he speaks to Sylvain in this moment more often, how he wants to feel Felix’s words warm on his own lips. He wants Felix to look at him like this—like Sylvain is the only person in the world that matters. He wants all of this _all the time_, not just after he has to watch his brother die a gruesome death.

He realizes he wants Felix’s hands back on his head, this time tugging at his hair, kissing his neck. He has the urge to pull Felix’s own hair down and show him how good it feels to have somebody run their fingers over the sensitive skin. He craves to see Felix’s eyes hooded and chest heaving. He longs to see Felix want _him_ as much as he wants Felix.

And that longing frightens Sylvain. He should feel lucky Felix is giving him the treatment he has. To ask for more would be greedy and could chase away the only true comfort Sylvain realizes he’s always had in his friend since childhood. So he pulls away completely.

“You’re right. Thank you, Felix.”

Despite his inner turmoil, Sylvain can’t help the way his lips turn upward ever so slightly. Despite his unwanted feelings, he’s truly grateful to have Felix as a friend.

“Yeah, well, you’d do the same for me. You always have, I mean.” Felix is struggling to maintain the eye contact that Sylvain feels like he must be beggingfor, so Felix turns away again and awkwardly scratches at the back of his neck. “We should get to bed.” Eyes back on Sylvain, sterner than before, he orders, “You _will_ go to bed.”

“Yes, sir,” the bubbly laugh that escapes Sylvain’s lips feels like a lie, but he lets it slip out all the same.

Felix turns to get his lantern, but before he can take a step, Sylvain stops him, “Felix?”

He turns at the call of his name and hums out the affirmation that he’s listening.

“Really, thank you.”

Felix lets out a huff before turning his back to Sylvain again and reaching for the lantern, “It’s no problem.” He stops, and more softly adds, “You know I’ll always be there for you,” and he’s right. Sylvain knows.

It’s because of that knowledge that Sylvain can start to clear his mind of the clouds and forget the aching in his heart that had been reserved for his brother—for the man that he wishes his brother _had_ been. But as he forgets, that aching is replaced with a festering wound, one he knows he can’t ignore anymore. It’s a needier longing for something that he knows he _could_ have, maybe in some life, but can never dare the risk to take.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry my titles will literally never get better. Anyway, catch me on twitter @hildahresvelg


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